


Time Out of Mind

by farad



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Dorset with a day off</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Out of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> written for the fic_promptly prompt: Chaos, Michael, He tries to switch off and relax but he never quite manages it

He tried to sleep late – or at least to stay in bed and doze. But fifteen minutes after the clock should have gone off, if he'd set it the night before, he was up, sitting at the kitchen table while the coffee brewed, staring out the window at the rising sun.

Casey and Billy were still abed, probably not alone. If they were awake, they weren't drowsing. Rick, too, was probably not alone, and before he could stop it, the image of Rick and Adele together sprang to mind. It was far better than the idea of Rick and Faye – but that was little consolation, as the memory of Faye and Rick kissing flashed through his mind. He pushed up away from the table, concentrating on getting coffee out of the pot, even though it wasn't ready yet. He could handle strong coffee – it was a lot like Casey's standard brew.

Cup in hand, he wandered about the apartment. Everything was where it should be, most of it still untouched from where he'd put it when he moved in several weeks ago. Neat, tidy, exactly as he wanted it. And so sterile. The house had been the way he wanted it, too, but at least there, he could still imagine Faye, could still smell faint traces of her perfume, hear the faint echo of her laughter. And her anger. There was none of that here, and he should have been pleased.

But instead, it just felt empty. Empty and sanitized.

Jogging was good, it was regular, part of his routine. Because he had time, he added an extra two miles, pushing himself hard. After Bolivia, he'd been adding more and more, so that now he was regularly running ten miles. He needed to get to fifteen, but it was hard to work that kind of time into his weekday runs. So he was pushing it on the weekend. He didn't want to be unprepared again, didn't want to lose one of his team because he couldn't do what needed doing.

It was almost eleven when he got back. Eleven on Saturday morning. Only eleven.

So he took his time in the shower, letting the hot water beat along the right muscles in his back and legs, waiting until it started to cool before lathering up. As he washed, he thought passingly about other things he could do in the shower, but the idea brought back the image of Rick and Faye, and he was relieved when the warm water trickled away, giving over to cold.

Lunch. He kept food in the fridge – nothing exotic, even though he did like to cook from time to time. About once a month, Billy and Casey came over on a Sunday evening, and he'd make dinner for the three of them while they discussed projects they needed to do 'off the books'. 'Corporate meetings', they called them, and even though it was business, Michael actually enjoyed those meetings. They'd had one last week, though, so this weekend was free.

Today, he had the remains of a roasted chicken he'd picked up from the grocery store on his way home from work two nights ago, so he made a sandwich and a salad with lettuce that was going to go bad soon if he didn't eat it. He ate while reading the parts of the Washington Post he hadn't read this morning – the editorials, the movie reviews, and the 'what to do' sections. Before he put the paper in the recycle bin, he checked the real estate section; the house was still listed.

It was barely one o'clock. He cleaned up, dried and put away the dishes he'd used, wiped down the counter and the draining board before stowing it beneath the sink, then wiped down the counters again. No need to leave them damp. Laundry was next. He did it every other day when he was here, no need to let it build up. Especially the work-out clothes.

The apartment had a small washer-dryer combo, new; he'd been adamant about that. He didn't like sharing facilities. He divided out the whites from the rest, making two loads. His suits and shirts went to the dry cleaners on his way to work on Monday, a regular stop in his week-day drive.

While the washer ran, he vacuumed the carpets, another thing he did several times a week, on the nights he did laundry. He'd had to adjust his timing on it; at the house, the washer had taken longer, but there had been more to vacuum, so it had worked out well. Here, the washer was faster and the cleaning area smaller, so he ended up with more 'free time'.

As the whites tumbled about in the dryer and the colored clothes ran through the wash, he dusted the furniture and double-checked his phones, identifications, and pre-packed travel bags. Everything was as it should be.

He folded the whites while the coloreds dried, cleaned the bathroom, cleaned the mirrors and windows, and dusted the blinds. He was still considering whether to have curtains or not – he liked the idea of having two coverings on the windows, to keep out prying eyes, but he wasn't sure he wanted to commit to the necessary once-a-month washing of curtains.

Even though he didn't really have anything else to do, but then, he wasn't always here on the first weekend of the month. It would be hard to try to fit curtain-washing into a busy work week. At the house, he'd often had to take them to the dry-cleaner, and hadn't that been expensive. It had been a relief, sort of, when Faye asked to have the curtains back, even though he couldn't imagine what she was going to do with them. She already had curtains in her new place, pale shears, which he couldn't understand. They didn't keep people from looking in, so they had to be decorative. What was the point of all that work if they didn't at least serve a purpose?

He'd asked her, that last day in the house, when she'd come over to pick up all the things that she wanted. She'd rolled her eyes, as she did so often, and walked away without explaining, as if she thought he were being argumentative. So he'd let it go. He needed to ask Billy, though – if anyone could understand the female mind, it was Billy.

The apartment was clean, his colored clothes folded and put away by 3:15. He thought about running again, but his legs were still stiff from the morning. Tomorrow was the day he washed the car, and if he did it now, he'd have nothing to do then. So he paced around the apartment once more, checking for anything out of place or that needed doing.

Nothing. He sighed, then looked around the living room. It was Saturday afternoon; all sorts of sports on television, but when he'd scanned the sports pages this morning, nothing had slotted itself into his memory. But he did have a couple of journals that had come in this week that he'd stacked neatly on his desk. "The Skeptic" had come in on Tuesday, and he'd had little time to read it. It was a good issue, several articles on faith and violence, and it was almost seven when he finished the last article and set it aside.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he was due to eat. He could go out – there was a nice little bistro around the corner where he often picked up food when he was late in from work – but he didn't like eating alone in public; people always thought that was an invitation to talk to him about things that were none of their business.

There were a number of frozen options neatly stacked in the freezer, and he chose a Chana Masala. As it heated in the microwave, he made up another small salad, pleased to finish off the lettuce and adding it to the running grocery list that was on a pad on the far side of the counter. He had almost seven items on it, which was good; he always went to the market on Sunday, after washing the car.

He turned on the television, channel surfing past several movies that made him think of Faye, until he hit a rerun of "The Alamo". It was one of his favorite movies and he never missed a chance to watch it. He was so caught up in it, even now, that he waited until it was over before cleaning up behind himself.

That was the height of laziness, he scolded himself afterwards. He was damned lucky that Higgins hadn't called with an assignment – then he'd have had to leave dirty dishes in the sink for who knew how long?

And thinking of Higgins made him pull his hands out of the soapy water, rinse them thoroughly, then dry them completely on a clean drying towel before fishing his phone out of the pocket of his jeans to check that the ringer was on. The device had been unusually silent today, not even a call from Billy to 'check in' and report that he was going to be 'unavailable'; it was a ritual, the Scotsman calling about the middle of every Saturday afternoon when they weren't on a mission, to tell Michael not to call him. As if that request would ever be heeded. Billy was as 'on call' as the rest of them.

Michael knew what the calls were really about – Billy had taken it upon himself to be Michael's 'keeper', as if Michael needed one. The calls had started shortly after Faye moved out and it was a rare Saturday that he didn't get one. As he checked his phone, finding the ringer set to 'medium' and no calls or texts or even emails, he wondered if Billy had finally accepted that Michael was all right. It was a nice thought. He ignored the twinge of loneliness that came with it.

He set the phone aside and finished up the cleaning, wiping the counter down twice while returning everything to its proper place. Another western movie had started, one that he wasn't as fond of, but he let it drone in the background as he picked up the new copy of "The Wilson Quarterly". Between articles, he found his attention caught by the crazy-eyed gunslinger who twirled his pistols with such finesse that Michael couldn't not watch him. His death toward the end of the movie never seemed any better – but also no worse, and the last scenes of the movie, in the infirmary, brought to mind too many of Michael's own concerns. Even though it was after eleven, he didn't want to end his day on that note, so he flipped the channels until he came across a rerun on BBCA of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Several hours later, he woke up from a dream of Casey twirling guns, his eyes wide and crazy as he screamed threats at someone in a heavily-accented voice that sounded more like a Ferengi – and come to think of it, Casey did have very large ears. Billy had been in a hospital bed behind Casey, his face pale, his eyes too bright, and his hair sticking up wildly – even for him. He'd been holding a letter, talking about some woman Michael had never heard of, and coughing up blood.

The tv was still on, some program about cooking that Michael didn't take the time to identify before shutting it off. The issue of "The Wilson Quarterly" fell onto the floor as he stood, and he leaned down to pick it up, closing it carefully before setting it on the coffee table.

It was as he straightened up that he caught the flash of light on the far wall. Instinctively, he ducked, waiting for the sound of breaking glass, the thud of impact as a bullet crashed into something. But after a few seconds, when the beating of his heart slowed and he realized he'd heard nothing else, he looked around. The blinds were closed but the street lights and the complex's external lights glowed through the blinds. Staying close to the walls, he eased over to the window and peered through the side, careful not to move the blinds any more than he had to.

On the sidewalk in front of his apartment, a couple was kissing, their arms wrapped around each other. They were leaning against a car, and he could tell that the light that had flashed above his head had come from the mirror on the door as it had closed, a reflection that had made it through the slight separation in the blinds.

Young and passionate, kissing as if there was nothing else in the world that mattered. He thought of Faye, of Paris, of how things had been so long ago, when nothing had mattered except making her happy, wanting to give her everything. Wanting to give her a world that she could appreciate.

He turned away, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to think about all he'd lost. He turned off the lamp as he moved past the couch, making his way by the low light over the kitchen sink. But as he made it to the hallway and the door to his bedroom, he was startled by a vibration in his pocket. Instinctively, he reached for his gun, even though he knew it wasn't there – he was off-duty, wearing jeans and a sweat shirt, in his damned socks. In his locked apartment, with all of his security features in place.

Even as he thought it, he felt the vibration again, and this time, he recognized it: his phone. He drew it easily from his pocket, as if it were his gun, and read the face: 'Brunch at your place at 1 pm. We'll bring beer, you're cooking.'

Michael sighed but smiled. How like Billy – acting as if Michael didn't already have a refrigerator full of beer, most of it courtesy of Billy and Casey and their very selective tastes. He glanced at the upper right corner of the phone's face, checking the time. 2:15. He started back toward the kitchen, knowing that he would need to run to the grocery story before he could cook – then the phone buzzed again in his hand.

'Live dangerously – check the kitchen in the morning, not now.'

He stared at it for a few seconds, then he grinned. The guys knew him well, too well, maybe. But as he thought about it, he turned back toward the bedroom. What the hell? It was a weekend and he could be lazy if he wanted. He could figure out brunch in the morning. It wasn't as if he'd invited them over.

As he brushed his teeth and washed his face, he considered things he could cook. Billy liked breakfast foods for his brunches, thinking that it made it more decadent to be eating breakfast at lunch time. Casey didn't care, as long as he had coffee and bread of some sort.

He pulled on a pair of worn shorts and an old tee shirt, then settled into bed, a menu forming in his mind. As he drifted off to sleep, he felt good; he had a plan for tomorrow, something to do as soon as he got out of bed. He'd need to wash the car first – after his run. He'd need to get up at his usual time. Good thing he hadn't turned the alarm off.


End file.
